


Cosmic twins

by nanokouw



Category: Last Tango In Halifax
Genre: F/M, Mature Love, Second Chances, goobers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2020-10-29 07:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20793074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanokouw/pseuds/nanokouw
Summary: We learn Gillan and Caroline share a birthday in the fifth episode of the first series. Celia has a theory she shares with Alan when they are cuddled up together after dinner. This story follows that theory.





	1. Chapter 1

Wifely duties, she remembers her mother saying, are part of marriage and they are to be endured. So, Celia does. In the beginning, the wifely duties she performed were quite nice, even if they were a little unfulfilling. But after a few years of marriage - and Kenneth’s wandering ways - she tries to keep her mind as detached from her body during  _ it _ as she possibly can.    
  
Sometimes, when it does feel nice, she thinks of Alan and how different it might have been with him. She imagines he wouldn’t just roll over afterwards, pull up his shorts from where it dangles on his ankle and fall asleep. Or at least that's what she imagines. That he wouldn't leave her to mop up the disgusting proof of his virility. Alan would have noticed if she'd stare at the ceiling with too dry eyes and a deeply lonely heart. He might even have kissed her. 

Tonight, Kenneth had reached for her and she'd gone along with it, feeling restless. She kept her eyes shut and thought of the boy she'd been so in love with ten years ago. Back home. When she wore ankle socks and woolen jumpers.    
  
She thought of the things Alan would have done to make her feel loved. He would have touched her with great appreciation, enjoying the softness of her skin, the fullness of her breasts and the curve of her bum. She imagined that every push and pull would be of a joyful sort, not of a man only trying to find relief.    
  
Alan's smile pushed the reality of her sweaty husband away and when Kenneth was done and turned off the light, Celia just tugged down her nightie and turned over, trying to hold on to a fantasy, her knees pulled up and the blankets covering her.   
  
The room is filled with the sounds of Kenneth's snoring and the ticking of his alarm clock. Tomorrow she'll pick up the bottles of milk from the doorstep and make breakfast for a man who won't appreciate the perfectly boiled egg she puts in front of him.    
  
She sighs. Fantasies are all well and good, but they don't change your ordinary day to day life.

* * *

Theirs isn't a very passionate life, Alan thinks as he covers Eileen - who is fast asleep after their nightly exertions - with the blankets. He goes out every morning after breakfast after kissing his wife goodbye and he comes home to a simple dinner. They watch a bit of television, usually. On Tuesdays he goes to the pub with Harry and Maurice and on Sunday mornings he struggles through the morning service.  
  
He is content with his life: he has a steady income, a roof over his head and prospects at Jessops. He is next in line to become floor manager. He has a sweet wife who looks after him tip top. No children, they haven't been lucky, but there's more in life than that. Besides, his brother Ted already has three boys, so the Buttershaw name is safe.   
  
Even if there are already so many Buttershaws around. It's a common enough name in these parts. Unlike Armitage.   
  
He'd thought of Celia while he made love to his wife. It happens sporadically. Usually Celia pops into his head when he's at work or when he is out for a walk with the dog. He thinks of how he admired her from afar. How spirited she always seemed and how capable. She had a way with words. Celia wasn't afraid to voice her opinions.  
  
Eileen's opinions are a bit moldable, but she is very pretty and very sweet. She doesn't have the zest for life Celia had. To this day he wonders why Celia had stood him up. His pride had been hurt, but he'd also been afraid to go out to find someone as spirited.   
  
Tonight, in bed, he had thought if Celia would have been equally spirited in bed. If she would have wrapped herself around him and if she would have held on tight. He had gotten up steam and when he finished he had to be careful not to call out for the love he lost.  
  
He lies down and closes his eyes. Tomorrow the alarm will go at six thirty. Just another ordinary day. No dreams of former love will change that.

* * *

She never expected this to happen. Having William signing her up on Facebook was a bit of a laugh. He was so enthusiastic about it, saying she could reconnect with old friends.    
  
She watched William upload a picture to her profile and thought of the people she once used to know. Doreen Wilkinson - who died some years ago. Eileen Pickford, her best friend in school. Whatever happened to that lass? They lost touch after the move. The last thing Celia remembers of her best friend was that she had given her a note to give to Alan.    
  
Why is it that Alan never strayed from her mind?    
  
It's sixty years since they saw each other last, but there are still days he pops up in her mind.    
  
"Can you find people who you know no address of?" she asks William.   
  
"Yes, of course. You just need to know their name."   
  
"Alan," Celia hears herself say, without any hesitation, "Alan Buttershaw."

* * *

He enjoys keeping up with the times and since Raff has helped him sign up on Facebook, he checks what's been going on with it every day. For half an hour or so, he scrolls through messages, photos and sometimes leaves a comment or a like.   
  
Today he's been jittery because of the friend request he received.    
  
It's from Celia.    
  
Celia Dawson she's called now. Older, of course, just as he is. But her profile picture shows the sparkle in her eyes he remembers so fondly. It's brought it all back: standing on the bridge for hours while he waited for her to show up for their date and his subsequent disappointment.   
  
He was a little brokenhearted. But Eileen had been there to comfort him and they soon found out that Celia had moved away because of her father's new job. He'd been relieved: there would be little chance of them running into each other in the village on the way to church or the shops.   
  
He's clicked away the website without accepting or denying. He was too surprised to make a decision, but he knows he will. She probably barely remembers him and then he can, as Raff would call it: play it cool.


	2. chapter 2

She is carefully putting the roast dinner she made for this evening into containers. Kenneth didn't call he'd be working late and she isn't sure if she minds. Except she does: she has something she needs to tell him. Before it tells on her.  
  
How it could have happened after so many years she doesn't know, but she is thankful. Oddly excited. She's been thinking of Alan ever since she found out. His kind smile and soft eyes. She has been wondering if Alan would be missing evening meals and if he would always be working late. If he would come home with the smell of stale perfume. Perfume that's not hers.   
  
Celia puts the containers in the fridge and goes into the dining room to blow out the candles and take away the unused plates. Tomorrow she'll be frying bacon and she'll be trying not to throw up in them and maybe she can tell Kenneth then.   
  
She has no idea how he will react. They've never spoken of the possibility of having children. Maybe they took it for granted. Either way. Celia isn't sure how wise it is to bring a child into a home where the parents are… 

Her and Kenneth.  
  
A marriage that is described as cordial at best.   
  
She pulls out the half loaf from the breadbin and puts a slice of bread in the toaster. Her dinner will consist of this with a cup of tea. Even if she is considering a sherry. But her mother always told her that's where trouble starts: drinking alone. So she won't.   
  
The kettle boils, the toaster clicks. She butters the warm slice and takes it into the living room. She turns on the television and settles down, watching the black and white images flicker over the glass plate until it's time to go to bed.   
  
She takes off her Sunday best and unclips her stockings. Takes off her girdle, and stands in front of the tall mirror and runs her hands over her sides, her waist. Her still-flat belly. She almost says 'hello' before she feels silly. Worries what anyone might think if they heard her.   
  
After cleaning her teeth and pulling her nightgown over her head, she lies down on her side and closes her eyes. In the darkness she waits for her husband, her news still a secret.

* * *

How can she look exactly the same she did sixty years ago? He doesn't understand. He is a little overcome with it, a little flustered as he ought to be putting money in the meter and he hasn't any. But she is smiling so brightly and it takes him back to the lad he was.   
  
She sits down at the small table and she starts the conversation; her words flow easily and all he does is watch her. She is so bright. Her accent is less thick than his - but he ought to have expected that. She looks very smart; she obviously looks after herself.   
  
Unlike him, she seems to be very much at ease and she tells him to go to the meter before he gets a ticket. When he returns she is all business. Grabs him and her car and before he knows it, he is chasing the joyrider who has stolen his car, his heart hammering painfully in his chest.   
  
He ought to have his pills on him, but his life is sedate. Calm. Tranquil. He doesn't need to have his pills on him. But Celia Armitage is showing him that life as a 78 year old doesn't mean it's over. She is pushing her foot down, following his car as he is talking to the police and holding on for dear life.   
  
He's not had such excitement since fulfilling his national service and it's thrilling. If only his heart didn't complain so much. He tells her. That he has a heart condition and she acknowledges it, her eyes on the road, swearing and making sharp turns.   
  
No. She's not changed much.   
  
When they crash into the back of his car, she squeals and he finds himself delighted by the sound. Of course he is worried for her and for himself at that, but the sparkle in her eyes has him thinking back to that school girl he was head over heels in love with.   
  
They watch their cars being towed and are taken to the police station in a patrol car. Alan is glad it's not Robbie's. Relieved it's just a copper. He sits next to Celia Armitage and her hand is touching his and he makes a mental note to thank Raff for putting him on Facebook when he comes home.

* * *

She tells him everything sat on the bench in the police station. They are nibbling on polo mints and she can tell Alan is out of sorts, but she tells him. About the night Caroline was born. When she lost two pints of blood. When Kenneth was out, having it off with another woman.   
  
Alan is so sympathetic. Without pitying her. Or at least not in the way she had been accustomed to: the glances and whispers. The headshakes. Nor has he had an easy life by the sound of it.   
  
When he tells her how he had stood by the bridge by the church in the snow - which was impossible, for it had been July - she knows he had meant it. He had thought she'd stood him up and she confessed to him, there and then, in the drafty hall that she had been in love with him. That she had waited and waited for him to ask her out.   
  
When the young police officer asks them to follow him - Mr and Mrs Buttershaw - they look at each other, realisation dawning, a happy flock of butterflies settling in her stomach.   
  
Together they wait for their daughters. The pub has a lovely little nook by the fireplace. The deep chairs are comfortable and she hates to admit it, but her neck has had a bit of a snap when they bumped into Alan's car.   
  
She called Caroline at school, heard her deep sigh. She could almost see the rolling of eyes Celia has known so well for almost forty years.   
  
They chat. Talk about their lives, give information and store it away. His hand is soft around hers, but sometimes he gives her a little squeeze and it makes her blush almost. Their decision is making her feel happy. Truly, deeply happy. For the first time in what might be forever.   
  
He is so special. So kind and caring and with a sense of humour that fits hers so well. His eyes are the eyes she used to see before falling asleep. His voice a little ruffled round the edges but still. It's him.   
  
It's always been him.

* * *

He doesn't know how it's possible. After so many years. Eileen had always been a little sad about it, the lack of small feet in the house. Barkisland is small, but the school is near their home and she can stare out of the kitchen window, over the sink, wiping a plate or glass with a tea towel as the children make their way to school.  
  
When they'd not been married long - three years, maybe four - she'd cry sometimes.   
  
It broke his heart.   
  
He thinks back to the last ten days. How Eileen had been jittery and skittish. How she had declined his advances. Their courteous lovemaking was always somewhat of a routine. Nothing very exciting. His mind flits to Celia. How she might have been different; how she might have been welcoming it with enthusiasm.   
  
Lukewarm or different: Eileen has just told him her news and he is holding her, gently, nothing too tight, being careful, being the man she expects him to be and he is looking to the future. To the life that will be joining theirs.   
  
How welcome it is.

  
  



End file.
